Plain pain
by MajorFirst
Summary: My view on what Owen felt when he first saw Beth in Seattle Grace and what happened next, leading him and Cristina in that on-call room. Mentions of war time, be warned. One shot.


**These characters obviously don't belong to me, nor does the TV-show. English is not my first language so I apologize in advance for mistakes I may have done.**

**This is my first fanfiction, please let me know what you think, so I can improve my writing.**

**And thank you for reading.**

It's not happening... It's not happening... It can't be happening...

Owen Hunt, the strong trauma surgeon who operated on hundreds of soldiers under heavy fire and who never, ever, retreated no matter how big the risks, the McBadAss who stappled his own leg without being numbed because pain was something he could handle just fine, is now running away.

As he runs down the corridors, he can taste iron on his tongue, he can feel dust and sand between his teeth, hear the screams of good guys beeing blown appart, the prayers of way too young soldiers dying. He can hear bullets whistling in the air around him, explosions... It's real. It's too real.

It starts deep in the pit of his stomach, bile rising up, burning all it's way up. Each one of his muscles are contracted, his lungs won't allow air to fill them and he can't form any rational thought. His body is out of control, his brain in overload. Like a plane without a pilot, he is going to crash and he knows it.

He bursts into a empty room, slamming the door open, and he tries. He tries to breathe, to stop the images, but he fails. Again.

Now, all he can see is an engagement ring and her face. Beth's face. But then he's in the desert once more, and the ring is now covered in blood and dirt. And it's not the same one. It belongs to the guy lying under his hands.

\- "_I wanted to... give it... to Caroline... on my next... leave... Please, please... make sure... she has it... and... tell her... I love her... please..._"

He remembers what his answer was, because it was always the same, cliché as Hell.

_\- "You'll tell her yourself, soldier, you're going to be fine, Okay!_"

Each time, he could even have fool himself as the words escaped his mouth again and again with such conviction, but he knew the truth: within a few minutes, seconds if he is lucky, this guy would be dead. The engagement ring would become a grieving item that would wreck that Caroline girl.

He saw all of this before, unfortunatly, not only once. Many times, even after he went back. It was not always the same guy, the girl changed name too, and there was not always a ring. Sometimes, it was not even about a girl, it was about parents, or sibblings... Whatever... and he just died a little himself, each single time. Just like he is dying a little more right now.

He had a girl home, too. Beth. She already had the ring, with no blood on it. He wanted her to be a comfort, to be a reason he wanted to live for and come back to. But she was not. She was just not. They were so different already before. But then... it was more than a difference. Her emails were about the wedding, her friends helping her setting the ceremony, her desire to start a child, the cut she made on her finger while making diner for her father, who was sick but she didn't know that... And he couldn't be more detached. His friends were dying, one after the other. She didn't get that. And she was affraid of spiders. Spiders. Little did she know that spiders were a nicest things over where he stood. Okay, it wasn't rational. He knew. But she was scared of spiders for god's sakes...

She didn't do anything wrong. It was him. He couldn't help it, but those tiny littles things, and those damn spiders were all he could think about when he read her emails, about her perfect little life, her perfect dreams and her perfect futur with him. Sometimes, it made him sick, litterally sick. So, one day, his answer was not what she had expected. She had send dozen of emails to try and reason him, but he didn't read any of them.

He never saw her again. Didn't want to. Didn't need to. Maybe at one point he was unsure about this decision, but then, the very night he put a foot on Seattle soil, he met Cristina. That had to be fate and he never doubted his decision again. The spark he felt, the need to impress her somehow, the strenght he saw in her, some kind of suffering in her eyes too... everything... he felt everything, from his guts to his brain and heart.

But, when he spotted Beth a few minutes ago, everything came back. Full force. Blood, sand, pain, death.

Back on the small treatment room, panick is rising while Owen tries to remember: Breathe, breathe. It's supposed to help, but the pain is surreal. His head is crushed and shattered. He rubs his chest, trying again to ease the pain in his heart, but it's just too much, his chest is just too tight, way too tight. Judging by the erratic beatings, he's pretty sure he's in v-fib right now.

And then, she's here. Cristina. She's confused. He tries to explain but he can't right now. She has to go. So he tells her just that. Not that it is necessary anyway, he thought, she's going to freak out, and go away on her own. And that's ok because he doesn't want her to see him in that state.

But, as he turns his back to her so he won't see her leave with shock written all over her face, as he leans and hold himself on a supply rack to try and catch his breath, he feels it. Her touch. But she can't do that, she has to leave before he goes to complete breakdown. He shoves her hands away, protesting loudly but instantly, she circles him with her arms, pressing the front her body against the back of his, holding him, firmly. He tries to fight her, to free himself, to push her hands and arms away, but his muscles aren't responding well. And she talks. She explains. He doesn't really registre anything she says, but it helps. Her voice helps. Her touch helps. Her entire body helps. Somehow.

It helps, yeah, but not in the way he wants it to. Because he just wants the pain and the images to go away and his brain to think again. He wants to come back in the now. It doesn't work that way though. But, second after second, word after word, and for the first time since he's been back, he feels the tears. He can't fight anymore, her hold nor the tears. He's clenching at her arms now but only to be sure she doesn't go away.

_"don't let go of me"_ is all he wants to say, but words won't come.

It doesn't matter. She holds on anyway. As if she knows.

And he cries. Like he never cried before, over guys he didn't even really know, over his friends, over the pain... he cries. Hard. After a while, his body starts to relax, slowly, mostly because it's drained. It seems he can breathe more easily at least. He feels her arms losing their grip around him and despite the fact that he can't really protest, he hates it. He knows why. She's going to burst out of the room after this and he's angry at himself not to have fight harder to make her leave before he broke down. Because now, she knows how badly damaged he is and all his dreams and his hopes will die too.

But again she surprises him. She doesn't leave. She makes her way around him, facing him for a second, taking in every emotion that crosses his features. She reaches for his cheek, stroking his jaw, in an almost loving manner, before sliding further up, on his neck and she pulls him down to her until he's secure in her arms again, his face in the crook of her neck. In a fraction of time he holds her back, as tight as he can, as tight as his sore muscles allow him to.

Cristina waits. Another few minutes flies by before she speaks again, words he understands this time.

_"Can you walk now?"_

Her voice is soft, almost a whisper.

He nods and leans back, away from her, his even bluer eyes avoiding hers. She's satisfied he looks good enough to exit the room without anyone thinking anything more than he maybe just lost a patient. These things happens often enough. She opens the door and just before leaving, she turns back towards him:

_"Come on"_

He doesn't question it. He's still on some kind of an auto pilot and her request seems reasonable enough. Maybe he just wants to be with her too. So he follows, whipping the wetness from his cheeks and eyes with his hand and sleeve.

Once on the nearest on-call room she could find, she tugs at his lab coat, stripping him out of it. She takes hers off too, leaving it on the nightstand.

_"Lie down"_ she says, pointing the bed.

Again he obeys. He has no strengt left to argue.

She sits sideways on the bed, facing him, her hand resting on his shoulder.

\- _"Sleep now"_  
\- _"I can't sleep."_ His voice his rough, but honnest.  
-_ "Owen, you're exhauted, you need to rest."_  
\- _"I know... but... when I close my eyes, there is just death. There's nothing left alive... I just can't..."_

It doesn't take long before her mind to forge an idea.

\- _"Move back"_

He tilts his head but obeys anyway.

She settles down beside him, fixing the pillow between the wall at the head of the bed and her back.

\- _"Come here and listen to my heart"_

He moves back to her, a little unsure how to oblige. Seeing his discomfort, or maybe confusion, she helps him by guiding his head to her chest with her hand on the back of his neck.

For a moment, as he listens to the steady beeting under his ear, he remains tense. Her heart beats, again and again, each time just as strong as the previous one.

\- _"Feels alive enough?"_  
\- _"Yes..."_  
\- _"Then hold on to it, and close your eyes."_

His left arm snakes around her stomach and his head sinks a little more onto her chest. Behind her scrubs he can smell her skin, he can feel the warmth emaning from her body and the sound of her heart is almost overwhelming. With each contraction of the powerful muscle behind her ribs, his eyes close a little more.

A wave of serenity crashes on him, roaming over his soul and he feels... Safe. Safe from the pain, safe from the images and the memories. Within seconds his body is goes limp and sleep claims him fiercely, nightmares as far as could possibly be.

She reaches for the journal inside of her labcoat's pocket but before opening it, she allows herself to takes a close look at him. And she wonders. How much pain can a man handle? How broken can a man be? How fair is it that someone had to suffer that much in order to save people's lives?

She starts to lightly stroke his hair, then shoulder, and it seems to her that he relaxes even more under her touch.

She has a lot of questions and doubts, but they can wait.

For now.

**So? :)**


End file.
